Those Who Wander
by MissBubbles
Summary: Time goes quicker between the two of us. Oh, my love, don't forsake me; take what the water gave me.
1. The Bowman

Author's note: Well, I've taken the plunge and decided to start uploading this fic. Unbelievably, I've been writing in this category longer than any other, but I've never actually uploaded anything for it before. This story has been growing in my head for a very long time, and as such is more complex than any other I've ever tried to write; I only hope I have skill enough to do it justice. I'm uploading it in the Silmarillion section, because the majority of the action takes place before the events of the Hobbit and LotR. This first chapter might be a bit misleading in that sense, because it starts at the end of the Hobbit, but it seems complex stories lead to complicated timelines. This chapter is, if anything, a prologue to the narrative that is to follow. I hope you enjoy it.

The summary is a lyric from the song "What the Water Gave Me" by Florence and the Machine. I must thank her for filling the summary space with words far more beautiful than I could ever manage.

**1. The Bowman**

_Esgaloth, T.A. 2958_

Within the ruins of Laketown, Thranduil's daughter seemed very beautiful. Bard had been told that in comparison to other ladies of her kind she was not of remarkable beauty, but there was something shining about her beside such destruction; such mortality.

After the battle, the elves of Mirkwood had come to aid the ailing people of Laketown. It had been an age or more since so many of the fair-folk had been seen beyond the borders of their forest. Bard was of the few fortunate enough to have glimpsed one of them in the past. When he had been a boy of no more than six or seven he had met a messenger of the elven king, who had come to make arrangements for the trade of wine between the two peoples. The elf had been very tall – taller than any man Bard had met – and fair. Before today, however, he had never seen a she-elf.

When he first saw her she was helping to distribute bread to the women and children of Laketown left without husbands or fathers. She was dressed in green and brown, as most of her kin were clad, and although her cloth was fine, it was plain and practical: made for wear and riding. As such, the clothes were well-fitted, and Bard knew he had been staring when she turned her gaze to meet his. He removed himself from her presence very quickly, certain that he'd in some way acted inappropriately. When he found out that it was the King's daughter who he'd been staring at, he was cowed enough to avoid her as best he could throughout the days and nights that she spent in Laketown.

Despite his efforts, he still caught glimpses of the elven princess from time to time. One day she would be helping to clear rubble from the streets; the next she would be cleaning blood from the faces of those with injuries too minor to be put before surgeons or healers at this time. She always appeared where he did not expect her to be, and he always did his best to escape her presence before she could take too much notice of him.

He busied himself instead with organising the remnants of Laketown's people. With the master gone and the town in ruins, Bard seemed to have somehow become their new leader. Men came to him looking for orders; asking what should be done with looters and thieves, or when they should begin rebuilding the roads. He was not entirely comfortable with his newfound status, but as no one else seemed willing, for the time, to lead the people, he had little choice in the matter.

The first thing he had done was drag the dragon from his watery grave and set fire to his flesh. Smaug had brought pain and destruction to the lives of many, not just those who lived in Laketown. Now the beast could taste a fire of his own. Three days had passed, but the carcass still smouldered to the North of the town. The smell was thick and pungent, and made men gag when they drew too close, but the wind blew the fumes away to the East and the men and women of Laketown could breathe easy again.

Bard watched now from the edge of the camp that had been raised in the wake of the city's ruin, as flames licked at the dragon's bones. They were a golden glow in the distance, soon to be nothing more than ash and memory.

'You're avoiding me, my Lord.' The voice struck him like an arrow in the dark. He turned towards it, his fingers twitching towards his knife, even though he already had a notion as to whom it was who had spoken.

Thranduil's daughter watched him with eyes bright in the gathering dark.

'I am no lord,' he said, forgetting his courtesy. He did not apologise, for doing so would make him look foolish.

The princess smiled. 'Your forefathers were kings among men.'

'My forefathers were soldiers and guardsmen. It's been near two hundred years since a man of my blood sat upon a throne.' Bard knew he sounded sour, but perhaps he was. Miserable and grim was how men had described him before he slew the dragon. Now they called him a hero, and a king. He did not like it.

'It will not be so long before you are crowned again, my Lord.'

He narrowed his eyes in the dark and turned to watch the dragon burn. 'What if I do not want to be a king?'

He could hear the smile in her voice. 'King's rarely choose the thrones they sit upon, nor when they will rise to them.'

He watched her from the corner of his eye as she stepped up beside him. The golden light of the distant fire lit her face, even from so far away, or perhaps she had a light of her own about her. Her skin glowed; unblemished. Soft to touch, he'd wager. He felt himself warm to the thought and looked away again. He would never dare to touch a princess, let alone a princess of her kind.

'These people look to you now; you are their hope. And so you are a lord, I think, at the very least.'

'I do not know how to be a lord,' he said, still uncertain of the life that seemed to be flourishing before him. He felt the princess turn her gaze towards him, but he kept his own firmly on the flames.

'I did not always know how to be a princess, and yet I learned. Well enough, although perhaps not as well as some.'

He looked at her then, because the tone of her voice surprised him. She was making a mock of herself; he had not expected that from one of her kind.

The light was dancing in her eyes. 'You look surprised, my Lord.'

He checked himself. 'I'm not,' he said.

'A lie,' she replied, 'but a noble one, at least.'

He grew uncomfortable beneath her gaze very quickly and looked away, only to find himself staring again at the way her tunic hugged her waist and her skirt fell over her hips. He looked back to the fire, but she had surely seen.

'Do I make you uncomfortable, my Lord?' she asked.

'Yes.' It was obvious enough, and so the admission seemed less embarrassing than the lie.

The elf lady looked away from him and followed his gaze to the place where the dragon burned. 'Forgive me, I am not used to the company of men. Among my own people I am scarcely noticed unless I wear my crown.'

'A lie, I think,' he said before he could stop himself. He turned to look at her and she smiled.

'A less than noble one,' she replied.

Bard supposed that if this was a romance of old then now would be the moment that he kissed her. He was the hero, after all, and wasn't the hero always rewarded with the love of a princess? He would pull her close and she would go gratefully into his arms. Her lips would be soft and damp, ready for his kiss. Her body would be warm against his; her breasts would press against his chest and he'd feel heat rise within him. He felt it now, even without touching her. He was ashamed of himself for thinking such things, but he didn't look away again. She would see his shame if he turned from her.

'What is it that troubles you, Bard the Bowman?' She knew his name then. Of course she did, but hearing her speak it was strange. Her voice, lyrical like those of all her kind, wrapped it in a smoothness he was unused to.

'You, my Lady,' he said, knowing he could not hide the truth.

Her dark eyebrows drew together in the lightest of frowns. 'What is it about me that troubles you?'

Bard was careful now, because what he had just been thinking was too shameful to tell her, but she had already chased one lie out of him and he did not wish to pass another into her waiting palms.

'Your presence here troubles me,' he said at last. 'Why did you come here, when your own people are surely suffering as well? Do you not wish to be among them?'

In the dark, he could not see the colour of her eyes, but he saw the sadness that settled there. He was not sure if it was grief or pity.

'Of course I wish to help my people. We mourn the deaths of our own soldiers as much as any man may. But my people need a princess who is always strong; always able. As long as I am here, helping others, that is what they see in me.'

'Don't they resent the aid you give us, or question why you do not help your own people?'

She smiled then, although it was a sad smile. 'My people do not know death as well as yours. They do not understand the passing of their kin, nor the grief that replaces them. If they were to see me grieve too keenly or too long, it would strike fear into their hearts. Here, I can protect them from my grief, and prove to them that there is still goodness in this world.'

Bard was frowning now. 'You have given this much thought, my Lady.'

'I have known grief before, and I have seen it take lives.' In that moment the thousands of years she had surely lived seemed to lean heavy on her shoulders. Enchanted, Bard reached out and touched her cheek. Her skin was just as soft as he had imagined, although a chill clung to it that he had not expected.

They looked at each other for a long time, and Bard could feel his heart fluttering like a lark inside his chest.

'Be careful, my Lord,' she said at last. 'A heart is a precious thing, and I am not worthy of yours.'

'A lie,' he replied.

'The truth,' she said, and her fingers curled around his, pulling his hand away from her face. 'Although I am honoured to have it offered to me so freely.' She kissed his hand and then let it go.

He took a deep breath and felt his heart slow. 'I could never hope to hold your heart, no matter how freely I gave you mine. Is that not so, my Lady?' He did not feel bitter about the fact; he had never expected to make any maid fall in love with him, especially not one such as her.

'I gave my heart up a long time ago.'

The dragon's ashes seemed to be fading to darkness at last, although the princess' skin still glowed with a pale light.

'You are married?'

That lit the fire in her eyes again and a smile curled her lips once more. 'No, my Lord, but if I am ever tempted into a marriage bed there is only one who could do so.'

Bard drew a sharp breath at the mention of marriage beds, and the memory of his own thoughts not long passed. 'I hope your charmer knows how fortunate he is.'

'One day he'll realise it.' She may have been smiling, but her words raised an anger in Bard that he could not explain.

'You think he is worthy of your love?' He sounded harsher than he meant to, but it did not put out the dancing light in her eyes.

'Worthier than anyone else living.' Her smile grew a little more. 'Even you, my Lord.'

Bard thanked the Valar that it was dark, so she could not see his embarrassment. The princess reached out and touched his arm, and the feel of her fingers through his rough-spun shirt stilled his breath. He knew her then for what she really was: a being unlike any other he had met before, or would ever meet again. She had lived a hundred times as long as him, and would live a hundred times longer at least. He could never hope to understand her, nor the love she bore her people – any of them.

'You are the best of men, Bard the Bowman. Never forget that.'

Again, there was silence as they watched one another, and then she let go of his arm, turned from him, and walked away. He watched her until she was but a shadow in the dark, and then he turned back to the place where the dragon had burned, and he let her go.


	2. The Prophet

Author's note: As the timeline dictates, I'm using the Quenyan forms of characters' names in this chapter. Here's a quick go to for anyone less familiar with who's who, as I know it can be confusing!

Artanis - Galadriel

Findaráto - Finrod

Itarildë - Idril

Turukáno - Turgon

Findekáno - Fingon

**The Prophet**

_The Helcaraxë, F.A. _

It was a long, cold road that had led them to this place. Surrounded by the grinding ice, the Noldor at last came to rest after endless days spent marching. Artanis looked about the barren plain they had dared to settle upon, and up at the jagged towers of ice that provided the slightest shelter from the driving wind. It seemed as safe a place as any in this wasteland, but she knew by now how quickly that could change.

'Sister,' Findaráto's voice was all but lost on the wind and she scarcely felt his touch on her shoulder. She kept her gaze on the gathering host. Their numbers were dwindling by the day and every face was etched with grief and suffering.

'We did this, Brother. We brought this doom upon them.'

Findaráto squeezed her arm tight and bent close, so that his words would not be lost again. 'We all chose this. Everyone here chose this. They could have turned back, as Atar did.'

She turned to face him then, and the fire in his voice matched the fire in her eyes. 'None of us chose this, Brother.'

Findaráto didn't flinch away from her, as most would have, but after a moment the fight went out of him and his shoulders slumped.

'I know,' he said, 'I know.'

Artanis touched her brother's cheek and felt nothing through the thick, fur-lined gloves she wore. Even without the gloves, her fingers had long ago lost the ability to feel. 'You should rest. We cannot stay here long.'

Findaráto nodded, but she knew he would find no rest here. The weight of the dead was heavy on both their shoulders.

'Itarildë!'

Artanis' heart stilled when she heard Turukáno's cry. It echoed around the frozen waste, buffeted back and forth by the wind.

'Itarildë!' He stumbled into sight; little more than a shadow in the gathering fog.

Artanis reached out and gripped her brother's arm. 'She can't be...' It was just days since Elenwë had disappeared beneath the ice and left Turukáno alone with their daughter, but the desperation in his voice as he called for the girl could only mean one thing: she was lost, and in thickening fog there was no hope of finding her again.

For a moment, Artanis could not move for fear, but then Turukáno began to rush out into the haze and she lurched after him. Findaráto grabbed for her, but she was the faster, and she reached Turukáno before he disappeared from sight.

'Itarildë!' His eyes were wild. At first he didn't seem to notice Artanis clinging to his cloak, but when he did he grabbed her wrist and twisted it, forcing her to let go. He pushed her away and she would have fallen had Findaráto not caught her. Her brother didn't pause long. As soon as she was back on her feet he let her go and lunged after their cousin.

'Turukáno!' Findaráto was the faster and the stronger of the two, but Turukáno was more desperate. His struggle caused both him and Findaráto to fall onto the ice, but her brother would not loose his grip.

Her heart jumped when she felt someone grab her coat.

'What's happened?' Findekáno's eyes were bright with fear. He made towards the frantic struggle in the snow without waiting for an answer and caught hold of his brother's arms. Findaráto would be bruised later by the blows Turukáno had landed on him.

Artanis turned away, unable to watch Turukáno's despair for a second time, and it was then that she saw them: two shadows emerging from the fog. Her breath froze inside her, and it was a moment before she could speak.

'Look,' she choked out at last, grabbing Findekáno's shoulder. He tried to pull away at first, but then he saw what she saw and stilled.

'Turukáno,' he said, too quiet to be heard over the wind and his brother's panic. Then louder: 'Turukáno!' He released his hold on the younger elf's wrist and grabbed his collar, jerking him roughly to get his attention. For just a moment, Turukáno stilled, and looked Findekáno in the face. He saw something there that calmed him.

'Look,' Findekáno said, and Turukáno did as he was told.

By now the two shadows had become fully formed figures. The taller of the two had his hood thrown back and his hair, though whipped wildly by the wind and dulled by mist, was golden. The other figure was too short and slender to be fully grown, and was wrapped in so many furs that it was impossible to tell by sight if they were male or female, but Artanis knew that it could only be Itarildë. Her companion had her by the hand, and was dragging her through the wind that blew against them.

The moment of calm did not last long. Turukáno struggled again against Findaráto's grasp and this time her brother released him. In a heartbeat he was back on his feet and racing towards his daughter. Itarildë let go of her companion's hand when her father reached them and allowed herself to be swept up into a tight embrace. The golden haired elf watched the reunion of father and daughter for only a moment, before he turned away and continued on towards the host. Then he saw Artanis staring at him and he stopped.

Artanis recognised him at once, although she'd never met him before. Her heart stilled inside her. Still kneeling in the snow, Findaráto looked up at Itarildë's rescuer and stiffened: he wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be safe in Aman with his mother.

Findekáno got up and walked towards the boy. He didn't recognise him; there was no reason why he should. Artanis watched her cousin go and then crouched down beside Findaráto. Her brother's eyes were dark with grief.

'She'll never forgive me,' he said.

Artanis wanted to deny it; wanted to wrap her arms around her brother and tell him that it wasn't his fault, but she knew he would not believe her.

'He'll be great,' she said instead, because she knew that there was truth in those words he could not deny. 'He'll be the greatest of us all.'

And although Findaráto did not look reassured, she thought he must have known, deep in his heart, that she was right.


	3. The Princess

Author's note: You may have noticed that the timeline is going to jump about a bit in this story. I'm going to try and be as accurate with dates as I can (with the First Age this is quite difficult, but I'll do my best), so hopefully I won't lose you at any point. Just so you're aware, my abbreviationsare as follows:

F.A. = First Age, which begins with the Awakening of the Elves and ends with the War of Wrath

S.A. = Second Age, which begins with the banishment of Morgoth and ends with the defeat of Sauron by the Last Alliance of Elves and Men

T.A. = Third Age, which begins with Sauron's first fall and ends with the departure of the three ringbearers from Middle Earth.

I'm not sure if I'll venture into the Fourth Age at any point, but if I do I'll specify, so that it doesn't get mixed up with the First Age.

Also, the moutain range I refer to in this character as the Green Mountains is the same range that will become the Moutains of Mirkwood, but I figured as this chapter is set whilst the forest is still called Greenwood, the moutains would have to have a different name as well. The elves are also living further south than they do in The Hobbit, because Sauron's shadow hasn't yet driven them into the north.

With all that said, here is chapter three, I hope you enjoy it!

**The Princess**

_Greenwood the Great, T.A. 1_

When her father returned, Ariel knew that everything had changed. He was not the laughing elf who had left her with a kiss and a new ribbon for her hair; he was grey-faced and grieving. Although she'd never known grief before, she recognised it for what it was. He was alone at the head of the ruined army, but for one rider: a golden-haired elf who Ariel did not recognise. She hated that strange elf the moment she saw him, because beside him her father looked tired and broken.

Her mother was quick to leave her side. It had been almost eight years since the Elven host had left Greenwood to join the Last Alliance, and in that time Ariel's mother had acted as regent. It was a role she had not taken to. She had often disappeared into the forest for weeks at a time, and Ariel, young as she was, had had to run the palace household in her stead. She hadn't minded doing so, but her grandfather's councillors – the ones who had stayed behind to defend the realm should the battle have been lost – had not seemed to enjoy it. None of them had been eager to admit that she was just one beating heart away from the throne, and had the battle gone ill, she would have been in command of Greenwood's last defences.

Her father took her mother in his arms and held her so tight that Ariel thought he might be hurting her. Ariel bit her bottom lip – an unattractive habit that her grandmother had despaired of. Her grandmother was not here anymore though; she had disappeared into the night when the letter had come telling of her husband's death.

The skin on the back of her neck suddenly went cold. She turned and saw the golden-haired elf staring at her. It was not the curious gaze of a stranger, but an intense stare; one of shock. Her skin prickled and she looked away, but he still did not stop staring. After what seemed like a long time, he began to walk towards her. Ariel stepped backwards.

Then her father was there in front of her, trying to smile. 'You've grown.' He touched the top of her head, and although he only smiled a little, it made him look more like himself.

Ariel nodded, and then, because she thought she should say something, she said 'Mother says this is as tall as I'll ever be.' Ariel's head only just reached Thranduil's shoulder.

He kissed her hair. 'You have more of your mother in you than me.'

It was true to a point; she was small and dark-haired, like her mother's Nadorin kin, and she could often be found in the treetops evading her music teacher. However, she could sing just as well as her father when she wasn't being forced to, and she was often told that she had a strength of will that could only have come from him.

As her father made to step away she threw her arms around him and hugged him tight, and although he didn't really respond she felt better for doing so. When she let him go she saw the golden-haired elf was waiting to be introduced to her. Her father pushed her forward, so that she was standing right in front of the stranger.

'This is Lord Glorfindel, of Imladris. He has come to stay with us for a time. Glorfindel, this is Ariel.'

Ariel stared, which she certainly wasn't meant to, but she had never expected to meet a hero from legend. For his part, Glorfindel was looking at her quite strangely too. A frown sat on his brow and his grey eyes were clouded with something akin to fear. No one else seemed to notice, however, and the lord was quick to hide his discomfiture.

He bowed, although it wasn't very deep and Ariel got the sense he was looking at her the whole time. 'Princess.'

She hesitated, but then her father touched her shoulder and she sank into a curtsey. 'Lord Glorfindel.' It sounded strange to say his name when she wasn't telling the story of his death, and in turn that seemed a very morbid thought.

When they were both standing straight again she thought she should say something charming, or witty, but she could think of nothing that would suit the situation. All she managed to say was 'You really are alive then?'

Glorfindel half-smiled, but the warmth did not touch his eyes. 'It would seem that I am.'

Thranduil squeezed her shoulder and then left her side. Ariel's hearing was growing sharper as she grew older, and she heard him say softly to her mother 'Let's go inside,' which surprised her; everyone had been expecting him to speak of winning the war and becoming king. She bit her lip and watched her parents go together into the palace, which hugged close to the feet of the Green Mountains. Uncertainly, the rest of her father's household followed, until only she, Glorfindel and a handful of weary guards remained in the clearing between the forest and the mountains.

She glanced wearily at the golden-haired hero beside her, and when she found him still watching her she offered a shallow curtsey. 'My Lord.' She followed after her parents as quickly as she could without seeming to run from him. Whether he followed, she wasn't sure, but she knew she had been bad to leave him by himself. He was a guest of her father, and therefore her guest as well. However, she had not invited him, nor would have with the way he made her feel. She smoothed the soft fabric of her dress over her hips, which had not been there a few years before. The cloth was thick and well-woven, but it had felt like little protection beneath Glorfindel's gaze. She'd felt stripped; exposed, and what bothered her most was that she hadn't really minded.

XXX

Ariel dreamt of a world on fire that night. People screamed and swords clashed and fountains turned to vapour in the heat. She woke sweating, and the sensation was unfamiliar. In a panic, she kicked the covers away from her and rolled out of bed, so that she was crouching down on the cold stone floor. Her heart was thundering. She put her hands over her ears to try and block out the sound, but that only made it louder. When she shut her eyes she still saw flames.

'It's just a dream,' she said to herself. She stood up off the floor and sat on the edge of her bed. The thought of going back to sleep scared her.

After a short while spent sitting in the dark, she reached for her night-robe and slipped it on, before walking barefoot to the door and stepping out into the hall. It took her no time at all to get to the library. She often went there at night, when the corridors were quiet and she wouldn't be disturbed. She'd sit until dawn flicking through history books written in strange languages, and comparing them with translated accounts. Sometimes she'd write out a single sentence, over and over, until its meaning was traced into her memory.

Tonight, though, the library wasn't abandoned.

She knew as soon as she opened the door that there was someone in there. She peered into the dark and saw him sitting at one of the reading desks, his golden hair the only light thing in the room. He hadn't notice her yet, but she wasn't willing to leave; this was her domain.

'Can you not sleep, my Lord?' she stepped into the room and let the door fall shut behind her.

Glorfindel looked up from the book he was perusing, surprised. There was a curious look about him; somehow sad. It didn't much change when he looked at her. In fact, she thought he might have looked sadder.

'Princess,' he said, and shut the book. He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. 'I see you couldn't sleep either.'

Ariel approached the reading desk. 'I'm not tired,' she replied, the dream already a fading memory. She hesitated as she nearer where he was seated; she'd felt naked beneath his gaze when she'd been dressed in the thick cotton and satins of her day gown. Now all she wore were her loose night-clothes. She pulled her night-robe closed across her chest and looked at the book he'd been reading to distract herself.

'Are you reading about yourself, my Lord?' she asked when she saw its title: The Annals of Beleriand. Ariel had read it often, and eagerly, but she saw no reason why someone who had lived the tales would want to read them.

Glorfindel's sad smile fell. 'I was trying to. I've never finished the story.'

Ariel wondered if he was being modest. She circled around the desk and perched on its edge beside Glorfindel, before taking the book from the tabletop and flicking through the thick, yellowing pages. She stopped on an illustration of the city of Gondolin.

'Is that really what it looked like?' she asked.

Glorfindel didn't answer, and when she looked up from the picture she found him staring at her with that same curious expression he'd worn when they'd first met.

'Why do you look at me like that, my Lord?'

Glorfindel released a breath he seemed to have been holding and looked away from her. 'Forgive me, Princess. You remind me very much of someone I once knew.'

Ariel didn't think that very likely. She could only have been a shadow of the Noldorin ladies he'd once walked with. Still, she felt a touch of pleasure warm her cheeks at the suggestion.

'You knew her in Gondolin?'

Glorfindel took the book out of her hands and touched his fingertips to the illustration. He did not look at her again.

'Yes. A long time ago.'

'Obviously,' she said without thinking, and then coloured with embarrassment rather than pleasure.

Glorfindel smiled again, and this time it almost touched his eyes. 'Yes, I suppose I must seem very old to you.'

Ariel shook her head. 'Not at all, my Lord.' She paused, thinking. 'How old are you?'

Glorfindel frowned in response. 'I'm not really sure. When you come back from Mandos it's hard to know where to start counting from.'

Ariel found herself wide-eyed and wondering again. This time, when Glorfindel laughed, she could see he really meant it. She blushed again, although now she wasn't really sure why. When Glorfindel laughed it was a very pleasant sound; it seemed to lighten the darkness of the library.

'Forgive me, Princess, no one has actually asked me how old I am since I came back.'

'I'm sorry.'

He shook his head, and now when he looked at her the strangeness between them was gone. 'Don't be. It gives me something to think on.'

She smiled and they sat for a short while in silence; Glorfindel flicking through the pages of the book and Ariel watching him do so. He seemed to only be looking at the pictures now, and occasionally she would point at one and ask him if it was true to life. They all were, he said. Pengolodh had lived in Nevrast, and Gondolin, and at the Mouths of Sirion, so he could paint pictures of them as well as any. The scholars never made comment on his artwork when they spoke of him, but Glorfindel said that whilst words had been his work, art had been his love.

Whilst she was peering closer at a particularly beautiful illustration of the Bay of Balar, Glorfindel reached out and caught one of her swinging feet in his hand. She looked up, surprised.

'Are you cold?' he asked.

She shook her head. 'No, my Lord.'

His sad smile had returned. 'You've never been cold, I imagine.'

She smiled back, confused. 'I used to feel it more when I was younger, but I'm growing out of it now.'

From the look on his face, Ariel thought that might not have been what Glorfindel had meant, but he nodded as if it had. After a moment more, he let go of her foot.

The sun had begun to rise outside, and fractured beams of light filtered through the coloured glass of the windows. The library was one of the brightest rooms in the palace; its windows were tall and wide, and the room was raised up from the forest floor, so that the treetops swept out beyond the stained glass, shaded in a hundred different colours. The painted sunlight brightened the shadows that still hung above their heads, and soon she and Glorfindel were bathed in myriad of colours.

Glorfindel shut the Annals of Beleriand with finality and stood up. 'We should return to our rooms, Princess. The day is nearly upon us.'

Ariel watched him slide the heavy book back into its place on the shelves that lined the walls of the room.

'I might stay here a while longer,' she said.

Glorfindel considered her for a moment, with that curious expression he couldn't seem to subdue, and then he nodded and bowed. 'Princess.'

She tilted her head in return and watched him leave. When the doors fell closed again, she pulled the Annals of Beleriand from the shelf once more, and opened it to a picture of fire and death; Ecthelion duelling Gothmog. The Lord of Fountains' sword was bright; the Lord of Balrog's was dark and fiery. The two steels clashed together and the water of Ecthelion's fountain turned to vapour in the Balrog's heat. She turned the page, and saw Glorfindel falling into an abyss, wreathed in flame.

In the colourful sunlight of the library, her skin went cold.

She shut the book.


	4. The Prince

Author's note: Sorry for the belated update. I'm in the process of moving house and everything's a bit of a muddle at the moment.

So this is the chapter where things start to reveal themselves. First off, I know this isn't canon. It's just an idea that I've had for longer than I can remember. I'm not 100% certain how it developed, although I have some theories that I'll set out at the end of the chapter (I don't want to throw any spoilers your way before you've had a chance to read the chapter).

I hope you enjoy it!

Oh, and also, Y.o.t.S. = Years of the sun. I left that abbreviation off the beginning of the previous chapter. I'm having to use circa. a lot in the coming chapters, because Tolkein was pretty vague with his timeline of the First Age.

**The Prince **

_Lake Mithrim, circa. F.A.65 Y.o.t.S. _

Finrod was leaving. It had been long years since he had truly lived beside the lake at Mithrim, but now, with his halls newly completed beneath the hills of Taur-en-Faroth, he would depart permanently with those who remained of his father's host. Soon the caves of Nargothrond would ring with a thousand voices, and the laughter and song of his kin, and at last they would be hidden from Morgoth's watchful eye.

Yet still he doubted himself, and even as the magnificence of Nargothrond's halls had come to light before his own eyes, a shadow of doubt had fluttered in Finrod's mind. This was the haven he had imagined and longed for, but he did not think it would save him from the fate that now awaited him, nor did he think it would endure long after he was gone. There was a chance, still, to change this, but it was slim at best and fading by the moment. Finrod would take it, but he knew he was likely to fail.

He found him on the training grounds, practicing long after his fellow fighters had left in search of food and family. The sun was sinking low on the horizon, staining low-hanging clouds pink and yellow. The wind was picking up; sweeping towards them from across the lake.

For a short time, Finrod watched Glorfindel slice apart the air with the sword gifted to him by Turgon. The young elf had remained under the protection of Finrod's cousin ever since Glorfindel had saved Idril out on the Helcaraxë. The sword hadn't been the only gift, but it had been one of the few that Glorfindel had accepted. Finrod could not blame him; it was a beautiful blade: it's hilt inlaid with a hundred or more chips of citrine and yellow topaz. He would have been a fool to refuse such a gift.

Finrod knew that Glorfindel had never lifted a sword before coming to Beleriand, but a stranger would not know it by watching him. The young elf danced with a blade as though he'd been raised with one in his hand.

It wasn't long before Glorfindel stopped, quite suddenly, and turned upon his watcher. The gaze wasn't friendly, but Finrod had not expected it to be; the blood between them had long been bad. He began his approach, and Glorfindel waited, sword still raised. It was sign enough that Finrod would not be well received.

'You fight well,' he said, to break the silence.

'I wasn't fighting.' Glorfindel's words were clipped. It was a petulant protestation; a childish remark made to irritate. Finrod thought to chastise the younger elf for it, but quickly decided he had neither the right, nor the courage to do so.

'Will you speak with me?'

Glorfindel turned away and cut the tension with a powerful swing of his sword. The steel flashed in the light of the setting sun. 'We're speaking already, are we not?'

Finrod swallowed a sigh. 'You are angry.'

'No,' came Glorfindel's reply, too quick to be the truth. As he twisted the sword in his hand the hilt sparkled, like a handful of spring buds about to bloom.

Finrod watched the younger elf with a measured expression. 'You act as though you are angry.'

Glorfindel stopped slashing at the air and let his sword's point hit the ground hard enough to cut through grass and dirt. He turned to look at Finrod, and anger fluttered behind the grey eyes he'd inherited from his father. 'You act as though you are resigned,' he said, by way of reply.

Finrod inclined his head slightly. 'What is it that I am resigned to?'

Glorfindel sheathed his blade before replying. 'A life spent unmarried and childless.' The words cut deeper than the sword ever could. 'In your people's eyes, that is.'

Finrod's lips tightened; his patience wavered. 'You're wrong.'

'No, I'm right, and you know I won't come with you.'

They watched one another in silence for a moment, but Glorfindel's bold stare soon wavered and he looked away. He was still young, and still unsure of himself, no matter how bold he tried to appear. One day it would be Finrod who looked away first; the older elf was sure of it.

'You knew I'd ask you?'

The wind gusted about them, whipping Finrod's cloak around his shoulders and pressing the fabric of Glorfindel's shirt against his chest. The constant swordplay had thickened the muscles in the younger elf's arms and shoulders; he was hardly a boy anymore. Finrod still stood a few inches taller, but in a fair fight it would be impossible to say who would win.

Glorfindel squinted into the setting sun, seemingly trying to avoid Finrod's gaze. 'No,' he said at last, 'Not until now.'

Finrod's jaw clenched. 'But you say no?' He'd doubted himself for too long; so long it had infected those around him. How could anyone believe in him if he didn't believe in himself?

'Lord Turgon has asked me to go with him.'

'Go where?' He didn't mean for it to sound so harsh, but the revelation surprised him; Turgon had made no mention of leaving Mithrim. But now Finrod thought of all the times his cousin had wandered off on his own, for weeks and months at a time. Now it was obvious that he had been searching for something, or somewhere, and now he'd found it, and he was taking his people with him, just as Finrod was doing.

All Glorfindel did was shrug.

'And you would rather go with him?' It stung to know that Glorfindel had chosen Turgon's secrets over him, but Finrod knew he didn't deserve any better.

Glorfindel finally looked away from the sunset. He had courage enough to look Finrod in the eye when he said 'I owe him more than I've ever owed you.'

Finrod could not deny the truth of it.

A sudden, strong gust of wind picked up Finrod's cloak and threw it backwards to become a banner of white and yellow: the colours of his father's house. Glorfindel wore only his shirt; he had not yet taken to dressing like a lord, although Turgon was not alone in treating him like one. He'd won the people's love the day he's saved their princess' life.

'He'll make you a lord in your own right.' Finrod said at last. It was obvious now. Turgon had found somewhere he though as safe and defendable as Finrod's own caves at Nargothrond, and he planned to take Glorfindel with him; to raise him the lordship he'd earned on the ice. 'That's more than I could ever give you.'

'If you say so.' Glorfindel walked away and Finrod thought that was the end of the conversation, but then the young elf stopped and stooped, plucking up a cloak from the ground. Finrod had not seen it, because the cloth was the same colour as the grass. Now, as Glorfindel threw it around his shoulders, he saw that it was embroidered with yellow thread, so that it looked as though the young elf was wrapped in a field of golden flowers. Finrod new the hands that had made that cloak well, and in that moment, looking at Glorfindel made him think of her. They did not look alike – had circumstances been different, people might have told Glorfindel that he was the very image of his father – but there was something in their expression that was the same; a kind of anger and a kind of longing.

'I'm going back, are you?' Glorfindel turned and waited for Finrod's answer. It was more than the prince had expected.

He hesitated, and then nodded. 'Yes.'

They began the walk back to the lake together, and although the silence was heavy, it wasn't awkward. Finrod's gaze was continuously caught by the flutter of Glorfindel's cloak, or the sparkling hilt of his sword. It was hard to stop looking at the younger elf, knowing that soon he'd be gone from Finrod's side, as he had been before.

'What will you name your house?'

Glorfindel turned, frowning, towards him. 'What?'

'When you are one of Turgon's lords, what name will you give your house?'

Glorfindel's cheeks turned a little pinker, and suddenly he was a boy again, and Finrod couldn't help but smile.

'You don't know he'll make me a lord.'

'He will.' Finrod knew it.

Glorfindel shrugged. 'I hadn't thought about it. It would feel...presumptuous. I wasn't made to be a lord.'

Finrod frowned. 'No?'

'I wouldn't know how.'

He laughed. 'You'll learn.'

'People won't like it. They'll say I wasn't born to it.'

A sudden anger surged through Finrod and he reached out and caught hold of Glorfindel's cloak, pulling the younger elf round to look at him. 'You were born to nothing less than you've earned. You've made yourself a lord by winning Turgon's trust and his people's love. Never forget what you've done, Glorfindel, it's made you who you are.'

Glorfindel looked surprised by the outburst, but no more certain of himself. 'I don't know who I am,' he said after a moment.

Finrod wanted to say it then, wanted to tell him 'You're my son, and heir, and my only achievement'but he was none of those things. Not really. Finrod had proved himself unworthy of a son.

Instead he said 'You're everything you've proved yourself to be, and more. Never forget it.'

Glorfindel did not seem to know what to say to that. Again he broke the gaze they shared, and as he looked down at his shoes, Finrod glanced to the fistful of cloth he still held fast to.

'Golden flowers,' he said beneath his breath.

Glorfindel look up, frowning. 'What?'

'You house should be the Golden Flower.'

They were buffeted again by the wind, which had grown stronger as they neared the lake. Finrod's cloak, embroidered with the golden rays of his father's house, was thrown around his body.

'Why?' asked Glorfindel.

Finrod released the handful of cloth he still held and Glorfindel's cloak streamed out behind him; a fluttering field of golden flowers.

'It's what your mother used to call you.' Finrod told him, because in his heart he knew that Amarië had more right to name their son than he had ever had.

* * *

Author's note: So, I know Finrod and Amarië weren't officially married before he left Valinor, but for some reason, when my brain was young and still couldn't quite wrap itself around all of Tolkein's writings, I developed this idea that Glorfindel could have been Finrod's son. I think some of the inspiration came from the fact that Finarfin was said to have founded the only house of Noldorin elves to sport golden hair, and so my thirteen year old self didn't think that Glorfindel being named for his golden hair was a coincidence. Also, in the Lord of the Rings, Gandalf describes Glorfindel as being "An elf lord of a house of princes". I will admit, these deductions on my part came before I was aware that Finwë also had two daughters from his second marriage to Indis, therefore leading many to a more plausible explanation as to who Glorfindel was descended from, but by the time I discovered this it was too late, and my own invented heritage for Glorfindel had embedded itself in my version of Tolkein's universe. So here I am, trying to justify it. Hopefully I'm at least a little convincing. There will be more explanation as to why Firod and Amarië's marriage never became common knowledge among the Noldor in later chapters.

Plus don't hate me for firing the canon!


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